


A Duster's Luck

by mllemaenad



Series: Seanna Brosca [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 19:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3581772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mllemaenad/pseuds/mllemaenad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The casteless of Dust Town are cursed from birth: unwanted by the Stone and unguided by the ancestors. Seanna Brosca has to make her own luck if she's to have any at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Duster's Luck

Seanna huddled in the darkest, dustiest corner of the ruin, and hoped they wouldn’t find her.

 

In a place like this, the Stone was all around her. That was no good – the Stone would know what she was from her brand, and betray her. But there was a lot of dust too: dust and fragments and misshapen mounds of dirt and clay she could burrow into and hide. If dust wouldn’t protect a duster, what hope was there?

 

Not much, maybe: she’d had nothing but a duster’s luck all day. She’d been poking around the forges by the smith shops. Just looking, honestly: it wasn’t worth what they’d do to you if they caught you with your hand on a dagger or an arrowhead. It wasn’t like nicking trinkets or cloth: the smith caste took theft seriously. But her mam had drunk most of her pay and slept only four hours, and then Seanna had broken their only bowl when grabbing her share of the food. Kalah hung over was bad news anytime: Kalah hung over and mad as a nesting deepstalker would give worse than bruises.

 

Rica had told her to go somewhere Kalah wouldn’t look, so Seanna had taken herself off to the forges. After a double shift in the chimneys, their mam wouldn’t even go near a campfire, let alone a working forge. She knew why, too, now: her eyes were still sore and running, and her red hair had gone grey and matted, as if the smoke had turned her ten years into forty in a matter of hours.

 

It was a safe place, though, as long as she kept quiet and stayed clear of the finished pieces: mostly, people tended not to see brands unless they had to. One little casteless brat could easily disappear.

 

She’d been tracing shapes in the ash – people, rats, spiders, nugs – when she’d seen it. Not a weapon – nothing so dangerous; not a coin, either – nothing so simple. It was a little lump of bronze, small enough that she could wrap her fist around it and hide it from view. A little lump like that was nothing to a smith: it was probably junk, or maybe just forgotten. They wouldn’t think anybody could have use for it.

 

That was because they didn’t know what every duster knew: some of the artisans didn’t stick to their family trade like they should. There were always a few who liked to make … things, on the side. Maybe little amulets or buckles … or maybe even a knife or sword, if they had the stuff for it. Work that technically belonged to the smith caste – but if there was an artisan who’d do it cheaper, they’d find someone to buy it.

 

A little lump like this could get her a whole silver on the black market. She couldn’t pass up money like that.

 

So she’d picked it up and scurried off back to Dust Town. That was where she’d gone wrong: she hadn’t decided right away what to do with her prize. She could take it back to her mam as a peace offering – that might work, or she might get beaten up anyway and see her bit of bronze traded for more moss wine. She could take it to Rica; Rica would be better at selling it, but she might also say it was too dangerous to try. She could sell it herself and spend her silver on – well, _something_. It was hard to imagine what all that money could buy. A whole nug? A bit of bronto roast? A loaf of lichen bread? Mushroom soup? Maybe even try one of those wizened red-and-green things that the traders hawked to the nobles. Find out if they really were good, or just a scam the merchant caste was running.

 

She’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn’t paid attention to how she looked. She’d been holding on to her bit of bronze too tightly. Of _course_ they’d seen her: a pack of casteless boys. They weren’t dull like the smiths – they always knew when another duster had got hold of something good. And they were all bigger than she was.

 

“Hand it over, kid,” the leader had said, thrusting his hand right under her nose. He was a _lot_ bigger than she was. Older too. He had to be fifteen, at least. He’d put tattoos on his face, over and around the brand. People mostly did that when they were in the Carta – or wanted to be in the Carta.

 

“Hand over what? All I’ve got’s my fingers,” she’d retorted brightly, trying to look casual, to not clench her fist around her treasure – and at the same time to watch all the boys’ hands at once.

 

“Then give us those,” another boy had said then, only slightly smaller than the first, and with mean, stupid eyes.

 

“You’ve _got_ something,” a third had insisted, and then they were all talking together: different words but the same meaning – ‘mine, mine, mine!’ said over and over again, and a dozen hands had grabbed for her arms and legs at once.

 

Seanna had run.

 

She’d bolted through a doorway, leaped over someone sleeping (or maybe someone dead) on the floor and ducked through a hole in the wall. There had been stairs, then, broad and worn down, and she’d scurried down into the darkness. Down to _this_ place.

 

Everything in Dust Town had once been something else. Rica had told her. She’d said that her father (Seanna’s father, not Rica’s; nobody remembered Rica’s father – probably not even Kalah did) had once said that, a long time ago, Orzammar had not been the whole world. It had just been a place for the merchant caste. Everything here had been built for them, with some lodgings for the servants who looked after them. Then the darkspawn had come and the thaigs had gone, and all the dwarves who weren’t dead had come to live here.

 

Merchants had once lived in Dust Town, or their servants had. You could tell, even by the dim light that came through cracks in the ceiling, even with eyes that streamed and stung. She was hiding in a corridor, or maybe a cupboard – hard to tell when half the wall had fallen in. Anyway, it was big enough for her whole family and maybe three others to sleep in it, all huddled together for warmth, but too long and narrow to be the kind of house even a servant would live in. A room that wasn’t a room. Rich people had things like that.

 

And the boys were just outside.

 

That was how she knew she was cursed. Even when something good happened to a duster, something bad would happen right after. It was because you weren’t connected to the Stone: you couldn’t feel your place in the world and judge what the ancestors wanted you to do the way a proper dwarf could.

 

Seanna couldn’t see them yet, but she could hear them. “Must be close,” one said. “The whole wall’s come down over there. Nowhere else to go.”

 

“Keep looking – what she’s got better be worth it, or she’ll get her arm ripped off for dragging us down here.”

 

“Might do it anyway. Little bitch thinks she can cheat the Carta?”

 

“Since when are you Carta?” They were, horribly, getting closer to Seanna’s hiding place. She could see this one quite clearly. He was younger than the others – still older than her, maybe eleven or twelve, but still not quite so big and rough – and his hair was pulled off his face in a long black tail. His face in the half-light was almost as grimy as hers, but he had no tattoos. Just the brand, almost blurred to nothing by the muck on his cheeks.

 

“My brother’s Carta,” one of them insisted. This had to be the leader. “I’ll make sure they get their cut. Or are you trying to hold out on them too?”

 

He advanced on the smaller boy, eyes narrowed and fists clenched. It didn’t take much for one brand to turn on another: you didn’t question the boss unless you meant to take him on – and take his place.

 

“No, no, no, no, no!” the kid stammered: his mouth must have run ahead of his wits. “Sorry, Arvel, I was just –”

 

But Arvel liked ‘justs’ about as much as nug-shit stew, apparently. He took a swing at the kid, big arms flailing with more force than skill. At least the kid’s reflexes were working: he leaped out of reach just in time, hands raised to protect his head from the inevitable follow-up blow.

 

And seeing Arvel-the-leader like that – alone (more or less, anyway), off balance and not thinking of her at all – a thought dropped into Seanna’s head as if the ancestors themselves had put it there: this is your chance.

 

She set her treasure down in a little pile of dust, pulled herself into a crouch and hurled herself at Arvel’s head. She didn’t have half his strength, and she wasn’t exactly skilled in combat herself. What she did have was the enthusiasm of someone who’d just heard she might have her arm ripped off if she lost.

 

He got his elbow up as she came at him; knocked all the air out of her. But her momentum threw them both backwards, and he landed on his back with Seanna on top of him.

 

He swatted her on the face, but it was an awkward slap, not a punch – he was winded too. Seanna felt light-headed; she was gasping for air but it felt as though it was getting lodged in useless lumps in her throat. Even the pain of the slap barely registered. She had to end this now, if only so she could die without some half-arsed Carta bootlicker pummelling her. Somehow she got her arms wrapped around Arvel’s neck and her legs around his chest. Then she put her mouth to his ear – and bit down as hard as she could.

 

Arvel screamed. He screamed the way people did when the Carta or the guard were questioning them – so loud and shrill you could hear them from the other side of Dust Town – and Seanna wondered vaguely if _this_ was what you did to make someone talk.

 

She didn’t dare let go, not even though she knew the other boys must be here by now – to help their leader or watch the show, either one. If she let go, Arvel would be able to use his size and weight against her again. Instead she worried at his mangled ear with her teeth, and tightened the grip of her arms around his neck. Let him find out what suffocating felt like.

 

She almost didn’t realise when the fight was over. Arvel was squirming – _thrashing_ – and Seanna’s first thought was that he was trying to get at her with his fists and feet. But when he finally managed to throw her off, he only scrambled backwards.

 

“Get off! Off! Bleeding Genlock! _Help me_!” He staggered to his feet and blundered back toward the stairs, bowling his followers over like clustered nine pins.

 

Seanna managed to sit upright – if only just – and bared her bloodied teeth at them as ferociously as she could. Maybe those boys were afraid of her. Maybe they were just still too afraid of Arvel to risk succeeding where he’d failed. Maybe it was neither of those things – just that the boy who’d fallen nearest her decided he’d had enough for one day. He pushed his way back through his friends and bolted for the stairs. The others hesitated for a moment, as if they weren’t sure what had happened or what to do next, then stumbled after him.

 

Like a pack of deepstalkers whose matriarch was dead: they’d follow anyone.

 

Finally safe, finally done, Seanna hunched over on her knees, trying to spit out blood and skin and gulp down air at the same time. It was true, what Arvel had said: darkspawn ate people, and some folk said that eating people was how you became one. She was afraid that, if she found a polished plate or bowl to see her reflection in, she’d find a monster looking back at her. How would she know if the change had started? She didn’t know what a Genlock looked like.

 

She got up slowly, one hand pawing at her face to see if anything felt wrong – if there were lumps or maybe horns; whatever it was that made a darkspawn what it was – and turned back to her failed hiding place. If she was going to turn into a darkspawn, then by the sodding ancestors at least she was going to get something out of it.

 

Then she realised that she was not quite as alone as she had thought.

 

One of the boys had not run away. It was the young one, the one who’d sassed Arvel, the one who’d sort-of saved her. He was in _her_ corner and he had _her_ treasure in his hand.

 

She growled at him, still too breathless and fearful for words, and he flung himself back against the crumbling wall, arms up like a guardsman had a crossbow pointed at his chest.

 

“No!” he squawked. “You think I’m stupid enough to take you on? After you chewed off bits of Arvel like he was a nug pie?”

 

Maybe he was and maybe he wasn’t, but Seanna noticed that he hadn’t dropped her bronze. “ _Mine_ ,” she said – the first word she’d spoken since she started running. Her voice sounded hoarse and strange and very far away. She wondered if her anger and fear was what being a Genlock was, and whether she’d end up eating this boy too. She hoped not. The last one had tasted of sweat and filth, and that had only been his ear.

 

“Yeah, yeah – yours,” the boy said quickly, as if _talking_ was like _running_ , and the faster he went the better off he’d be. “Look. That – that was amazing. I’ve never seen anyone – I thought you might – I mean, now you’ve won and all, you could maybe use some help. With the next part.”

 

Seanna put one hand on a wall to steady herself. What sort of nug-licking idiot tried to deal with a Genlock? But when you got right down to it, she didn’t want to fight anymore. She still felt dizzy, and her chest and face hurt. And eating people was horrible – knowing it was dwarf blood in her mouth was even worse than the taste of it had been.

 

“What’s – what’s your angle?” she managed, trying to get her wits and her words in order.

 

“You want to sell this, right? To some crafter? Well – my aunt, she goes into the deep roads for this guy. Does rubbings of old designs from the lost thaigs. He puts them on things he makes and passes them off as relics. And he likes me. If we take this to him, we can get three whole silvers for it. I swear.”

 

If it was true – that sounded good. It sounded like the kind of luck a brand never got. With that kind of money, she could buy something for herself _and_ take some home to her mam.

 

“That’d be worth … half a silver, maybe,” Seanna said slowly. She didn’t have much experience with haggling: at best she’d only ever had just enough to buy the worst scraps a merchant had on offer. But she’d watched the grownups trade secrets and favours for coin. This was a bit of both, but scaled down to kid size. The boy was helping, but she’d nicked the thing – and had to fight to keep it. Which, when you got down to it, was a bargaining point all of its own. “But … you saved my skin back there. A bit. By accident. Make it a whole one?”

 

The kid’s face split into a grin so big that it almost split his face open. “You got yourself a deal, duster.”

 

Seanna liked that – he said ‘duster’ the way some of the adults in Dust Town said it to each other: like it meant ‘friend’; like it was something to be proud of. She spat on her palm (red spit, still clouded with Arvel’s blood) and held out her hand. “And _I_ hold on to it.”

 

“Whatever you say,” the kid said cheerily. He spat on his palm, then grasped her hand, blood and all. Then he turned it over and pressed the bit of bronze into her palm. “We should get cleaned up a bit before we go near the Commons.”

 

That was the problem though: Seanna didn’t think being a Genlock was something you could wipe off with a rag. She put her hand to her face again, feeling cautiously. “Is it bad?”

 

“Not as bad as it could have been. You’re going to have a mighty bruise, though. It’s going to look like the brand’s eating your face.”

 

“No,” she said, with as much patience as she could muster, and prodded at her face some more: it was sore, and indeed a bit lumpy. “I mean – has it started yet? Am I changing?”

 

“Into what?”

 

“A _darkspawn_.”

 

The boy frowned at her as if she was talking in code. “What do you mean?”

 

“I swallowed a bit of him. Of Arvel. Like they do.”

 

“ _Oh_.” The kid’s expression cleared, and he shook his head. “I think it’s only bad if you eat someone who’s already got _it_. And Arvel wasn’t blighted. My old man once bit off this duster’s finger in a fight, and he … was as mean as an Ogre, but he was like that before, too. No change.”

 

“Okay,” Seanna said, reassured, if only by his confidence. She prodded at her cheek some more. She supposed it didn’t feel too different from the bruises she got after one of her mam’s drinking sprees. Besides, the kid was right: people fought all the time, she couldn’t be the first to swallow a bit of blood.

 

 “So – you know the way out of here?”

 

“You mean all this time you were _lost_?”

 

“What can I say? I’m a cursed brand with no Stone sense. Do you know the way or not?”

 

Seanna pointed over the boy’s shoulder. They were only two turns and a flight of stairs from Dust Town. She could see the path in her mind – but that wasn’t Stone sense. Just memory.

 

“Good,” said the boy, and fell comfortably in behind her as she headed back through the ruins. “You know, if we’re going to be partners, I should know your name.”

 

“Partners?” Seanna smiled uncertainly over her shoulder. “Let’s see how this goes first. But – I’m Seanna. Seanna Brosca.”

 

“Yeah? That’s a lot of name for a duster. Just call _me_ Leske.”

 

“You got a deal – Leske.”

 

Seanna rubbed at the muck on her face, and led them back up to the bright (Well, bright _er_ ) fires of Dust Town. Maybe a duster’s luck wasn’t always bad after all.


End file.
